


Diurnal

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 04:29:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11615883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Spock doesn’t understand why Jim stands without the sun.





	Diurnal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcdanno28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcdanno28/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for mcdanno28’s “[Nocturnal] 21-Spock/Kirk” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/163120603835/prompt-list-4).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Humans are strange in many ways, but the one that strikes Spock most is their _stubbornness_. They cling vainly to lies, even when there’s nothing to be gained by it and when all those around them know the truth. Winona Kirk sits on the middle of the living room couch in the middle of the night, avidly discussing politics with Amanda and Sarek, despite the fact that her internal clock must be screaming at her to just _sleep_ already. Spock knows humans can’t miss several days of it like he can. He knows that missing even one can have detrimental effects. And he supposes Winona Kirk, an aged ambassador with plenty of experience in uncomfortable situations, must be used to that. 

But _James_ Kirk, or Jim, as he oddly insists on being called, has no such obligation, and there’s really no reason _he_ should still be standing on the veranda. 

For much of their parents’ talk, Spock listens, seated in a plush armchair that’s drawn off to the side. Neither his own parents nor Ambassador Kirk pay him much attention, so entranced as they are in their own discussion, but that’s to be expected; children may listen in on the wisdom of their elders, but they aren’t to interrupt. Spock hasn’t been a _child_ for many years, but he’s still used to being treated like one. He keeps part of his attention on them anyway. For most of the night, he keeps another part on the glass doors that look out onto the porch, where Jim’s long since departed. He, apparently, doesn’t see just how much they can learn from their elders.

Or maybe he’s just trying to hide another stifled yawn. He already failed to catch two through breakfast—or what he called a ‘midnight snack.’ Spock doesn’t understand why his parents are doing this—surely they can see how much Jim’s slumping over the railing, how much his unseeing eyes glaze over the garden, only trying to stay open. Jim’s clutching his arms tightly—Vulcan nights are cold, and Jim isn’t used to that. 

Finally, Spock acknowledges that it would be illogical to continue sitting where he is, when he isn’t actually absorbing much of the conversation at all: most of his concentration has gone towards concern over his guest. He excuses himself without a word, and none miss him. 

Jim glances over his shoulder at the crick of the sliding door when Spock slips through it, gingerly drawing forward to let it automatically close again behind him. Then he joins Jim at the railing, where he draws the ends of his sweater over his fingertips to fight the cold. He notes that Jim hasn’t done so, just crossed his arms to stuff his hands against his elbows. 

For a moment, Spock forgets what he came to say. When he looks into Jim’s blue eyes, brighter than the clear sky and deeper than the sea, he forgets everything, and his cheeks threaten to heat again—a problem he’s had ever since Jim first stepped into his home. He got so swept up in _staring_ at Jim from afar that he forgot what this proximity does to him. But of course, it shouldn’t do _anything_ , and he tells himself he’s being silly and tries to shove that aside. He’s not a child anymore, and he doesn’t _feel things like this._

He looks out across his mother’s garden to avoid Jim’s intoxicating eyes, and he murmurs plainly, “You should sleep.”

“ _You_ should sleep,” Jim snorts, his voice a deep rumble and a light rain all at once. Then he clicks his tongue and shakes his head, amending, “...Sorry. I’m just... not used to nocturnal people.” 

Spock nods his head in silent acceptance. He knows Jim’s _different_. But Spock’s mother was different once, and she’s adapted. Spock doesn’t press the issue, and a minute later, Jim sighs, “Look... I’m supposed to be a cadet in Starfleet. But I _want_ to be a captain someday. And how am I going to command a ship full of aliens and explore new worlds if I can’t learn to adapt to other cultures for a few days—uh, nights?”

The mention of Starfleet sparks something in Spock’s side that he tries to suppress. He counters, “That is a noble pursuit of the mind, but your body must disagree.”

Jim grins wryly, a beacon of light in Spock’s peripherals, like he _knows_. His voice is thick with want of sleep, throat a little hoarse, posture still a nightmare, even though he held it taut when he first offered Spock his forbidden hand. Spock can still remember how it felt when he surrendered to that first handshake, the way his skin tingled after, Jim’s warmth embedded deep below the surface. He watches now as Jim opens his mouth, only to lose his voice around another gaping yawn.

After it, Jim rubs at one eye and mutters, “I don’t want to disappoint my mother. Surely that’s a sentiment even you can understand.”

Spock can. Because the only reason he’s resisted Starfleet himself is for his father’s approval. Even though if he’d applied when he wanted, maybe he’d be sharing a cabin with Jim right now. Maybe they would’ve met on a metallic ship with only simulated light, where _natural_ cycles didn’t matter. But maybe then they could speak more, be together more, and that would allow something that shames Spock just to think of. So he tells himself it’s for the best and shuts down the train of thought.

Jim suddenly shifts on one foot, and his weight bumps into Spock. He uses Spock like support, like what the balcony should be, except he molds to Spock’s body better. He mumbles tiredly, “Don’t tell my mother, okay? Let her think we’re just... talking. Fully up.”

Spock offers thickly, “You may rest in my room.” Not with Spock _in it_ , of course, but Jim’s mother is unlikely to find him there, and Spock can go on with his normal routine as though there’s no massive distraction walking about his halls. 

Jim laughs sluggishly, “My mother’ll be a lot madder if she finds me in your bed.”

Spock says, “I don’t understand,” even though he thinks he does. 

Jim just grins. It’s brilliant, like everything is on him. He uncrosses his arms and drops his hand down Spock’s arm, twisting around the sweater, finding the tips of Spock’s fingers and weaving between them. Then Jim _squeezes_ , and he pulls Spock back by the hand, Spock too awed and horrified to worry if his parents are watching. 

Jim takes them to one of the long patio chairs left of the sliding glass doors, where they’re cut off from view. It only gives Spock a small tinge of relief—the rest is washed away in anxiety and anticipation. Jim drags him down, stretching out along the patio chair. Spock’s pulled right next to Jim, the two of them barely fitting on the low frame. Then Jim snuggles lower, his head now resting on Spock’s shoulder, golden hair tickling Spock’s cheek. 

He murmurs, “Talk to me. Keep me awake.”

So Spock opens his mouth and says more than he ever means to, while the two of them watch the stars.


End file.
